


Electric Feel

by faithtastic



Series: DWBYG One Shots [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Crack, DWBYG-verse, F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Strap-Ons, these two are thirsty animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 21:12:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15179513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: Lexa accompanies Clarke on a work trip.(A futureDWBYGone-shot, written in aid of The Trevor Project. Some generous souls donated $320 to an extremely worthy cause in exchange for this filth. Enjoy!)





	Electric Feel

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as ever, to Betakru - @syngularitysyn and @clexacloneclub. 
> 
> Also, due credit to @merchanon @gramjams @weasal @thedoctor-smith @the-villageidiot for all their cracky contributions.

“I cannot believe this is happening,” Lexa hisses under her breath, doing her best to avoid making eye contact with the three TSA agents currently huddled around the monitor. “You should’ve checked it into the hold.”

Clarke folds her arms. “Yeah, well, hindsight is a wonderful thing. How was I supposed to know silicone shows up as a liquid in the scanner?”

“You studied science.”

A scoff. “Biology. For one year, Lexa. It doesn’t make me an authority on X-ray fucking imaging.”

One of the officials approaches—a short, stout woman with salt and pepper hair pulled back into a severe bun. She snaps on a pair of disposable gloves.

“Step over here, please.”

They share a quick yet significant glance.

When they both move to follow her to the partitioned area, a discreet distance from the busy line, she holds up a stalling finger at Lexa. “Not you, ma’am.”

“Oh.” Lexa’s throat bobs. “Of course. I’ll just be over...” 

She gestures to indicate somewhere vaguely behind her. But before she’s taken more than half a step backwards, Clarke grabs her wrist, preventing any further retreat. 

“No. Stay.”

“Clarke,” Lexa cautions, an undercurrent of alarm creeping into her hushed voice. She sends an apologetic look to the TSA agent. Is about to offer a few mediatory words to diffuse the situation, only for Clarke to preempt her.

“Look, I get it. You’re just following the rules, doing your job, earning your paycheck. But here’s the thing: we’re a team. Where I go, she does too.” Clarke lifts her chin, defiance in her eyes, a stubborn set to her mouth as she holds the woman’s stare. “So do what you gotta do, because I’m not going anywhere without her.”

Lexa does not swoon.

(Okay, maybe a tiny bit.)

For a few tense seconds, Clarke and her would-be adversary stand at an impasse, and amid the flutter of rising panic, Lexa wonders whether being detained for obstructing airport security is considered cause for disciplinary action by Dean Jaha and the board.

To her relief, the woman eventually sighs and beckons the two of them forward—the _I don’t get paid enough for this shit_ broadcast loud and clear by her demeanour.

“Just be cool,” Clarke says out the side of her mouth. “I’ll do the talking.” 

“Clarke, I’m the least cool person you know.”

“And I love you for it, babe, but I’m gonna need you to stay calm and let me handle it, okay? Trust me. I‘ve got this.”

Lexa stares, incredulous. But she swallows back a protest and nods stiffly, deferring to Clarke’s lead, unsure whether she should be more or less worried by Clarke’s unshakeable confidence in her ability to sweet-talk strangers.

  
  


***

  
  


The TSA official hefts the small two-wheeled hard shell case onto the metal table and opens it up with brisk efficiency. The main compartment is packed with innocuous things: Clarke’s makeup bag, spare socks and underwear, a warm sweater for the plane. All set neatly aside so the woman can get to the mesh-covered interior pocket.

Stony-faced but otherwise making no comment, she pulls out a clear Ziploc bag stuffed full of lube samples and condoms.

So far, so embarrassing. But it’s the following item—a bulky tool roll—that causes Lexa’s ears to burn and a flush to creep up her neck.

She fidgets and pulls at the cuffs of her blazer, because she knows what’s coming next.

The sound of Velcro fastening being peeled back goes straight through her, sets her teeth on edge. She can’t seem to tear her eyes away from the spectacle literally unfolding in front of her as the woman shakes out the tool roll and two metres of dildos of variable shape, colour, length, and thickness promptly unravel across the table. 

In the process, and to Lexa’s abject horror, one of the smaller toys pops out of its holster. The TSA agent catches the fluorescent pink dong before it rolls off the table, letting it dangle between her thumb and forefinger for an interminable moment before she slots it back into place.

While Lexa prays for the ground to open beneath her, Clarke offers a wink and a rakish half-smile, instantly turning on the charm.

She nods towards the toy. “One of my favourites. There’s a common misconception that ‘bigger is better’ but I find girth is way more important than length, you know?”

“ _Clarke_.”

“I’m just sharing the benefit of my expertise with—” Clarke glances at the TSA official’s name badge. “Darlene. Is it alright if I call you Darlene?”

A single eyebrow inches upwards but, otherwise, Darlene remains silent. 

“I’m actually hosting an interactive workshop at a convention in Vegas this weekend on the subject,” Clarke carries on blithely. “It’s a fun and frisky primer on toy selection, maintenance, preparation and technique. They’ll be filming it and posting the video on the Sexacon website. You should totally check it out.”

She produces a business card from her purse and hands it over to Darlene. It reads: Kassie Skai—actress, script doctor, director, sex educator.

“Stage name; long story,” Clarke explains. “But if you use the affiliate code on the back, WWKD15, you’ll get a discount on all purchases in the online store this month.”

At last, Darlene’s inscrutable expression cracks. She pockets the card and remarks dryly, “I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am.” 

  
  


***

  
  


While she crams Clarke’s case into the overhead locker, Lexa shoots a glare at the offending piece of luggage. She drops into her seat. Remains tight-lipped even as Clarke angles towards her, instead busying herself with fastening the seat belt.

It isn’t until the plane levels out on its ascent and the flight attendants sweep past that Clarke finally grows bored of the silent treatment. 

“Lexa.”

Pretending to be absorbed in the academic journal open on her lap, Lexa doesn’t lift her eyes from the page. 

Leaning close, Clarke draws out the vowels of Lexa’s name once more in a low, husky tease and Lexa tries not to react to the warm press of an arm against her own or the burning gaze she can practically feel on her neck—a full multisensory assault.

Somehow, heroically, she resists.

And Clarke huffs. 

Lexa hardly needs to glance over to know there’s an expression of deep displeasure on Clarke’s face, a pout to rival her own.

Still, Lexa merely turns the page, pretending to be unfazed. Only to yelp when Clarke rips the journal out of her hands and tosses it onto the unoccupied aisle seat.

“I was reading that.”

“Yeah?” An eyebrow arches. “So tell me what the article was about.”

“It was…” Lexa licks her lips to buy herself time to come up with a plausible lie; the truth is, she’s skimmed over the same paragraph three times already and retained exactly nothing. “It was a riveting account of, uh, the feminist grassroots involvement in—in—” She falters at Clarke’s narrowed stare then promptly drops the pretense with a slight roll of her eyes. She clenches her jaw. “Fine. I’m still annoyed.”

“No shit,” Clarke says, deadpan.

“You nearly got us arrested, Clarke,” Lexa snaps. “One day your problem with authority figures is going to get us in real trouble.”

Now it’s Clarke’s turn to flick her eyes briefly towards the cabin ceiling. “I had the situation completely under control. Darlene was a pussycat once I knew which levers to pull. I’m an expert.”

“That’s beside the point. And what possessed you to give her a,” conscious of the other passengers, Lexa lowers her voice to a harsh whisper, “ _Clit Bit_ as a parting gift?”

Clarke shrugs. “Why have endorsements if I can’t give out freebies every once in a while?”

“Never mind that bribing a TSA agent is probably breaking about a dozen federal laws.” Lexa crosses her arms. “Let’s hope Darlene’s newfound awareness of the frequency, intensity and duration of her orgasms dissuades her from testifying against us in court.”

“Babe, even government employees deserve to have better sex. I’m just doing my bit to help the world, one orgasm at a time.” Clarke picks up her phone to show Lexa. “And look there are, like, graphs and shit in the app.”

Lexa squints down at the screen. She can’t really deduce too much because of the absence of labels but the line graph features a _lot_ of dramatic peaks and troughs along the horizontal axis.

“... what am I looking at?”

“My activity in the last seven days.” 

Lexa looks up sharply.

Clarke holds extended eye contact, a little smirk adorning her lips. Then she taps on the screen. 

“See this?” She pauses, waiting for Lexa’s gaze to return to the phone. It’s zoomed in on a section of the graph with a tight cluster of steep spikes. “The Commander’s reunion with Clarke of the Sky People after they spent a long, cold, lonely winter apart on opposite sides of the war.”

Lexa’s mouth runs dry at the memory, what had been a particularly detailed scenario involving a tense parley at a ramshackle trading post many miles from the capital, neutral ground located between Skaikru and Coalition territory. It wasn’t long before the “peace negotiations” were abandoned. As soon as Clarke slipped out of her jacket and Lexa’s eyes fell on the form-fitting black tank that betrayed the fact Clarke wasn’t wearing a bra, all bets were off.

Lexa hadn’t kept a tally that night beyond a fuzzy awareness of drawing one thigh-shaking climax after another from Clarke. But to see Clarke’s pleasure so starkly represented on a graph, well, Lexa can’t help but preen because _she did that_.

The nerd in her is eager to dig deeper into the data set, to see what other patterns and trends might emerge, to formulate hypotheses to be proved or disproved with further applied field research. Preferably with Clarke on her back and her hands twisted in Lexa’s hair. 

It’s while she idles over those thoughts that she senses Clarke shifting closer and then there are warm lips on her jaw. Even though Lexa fully intended to stew in her totally valid disgruntlement for a bit longer—she can’t. She has no defence against lingering kisses and the hot puff of Clarke’s breath dusting over her skin.

“Clarke,” Lexa warns weakly, squirming in her seat as teeth graze the hinge of her jaw and a hand settles on her leg, fingers dipping into the heat trapped between her thighs. “What are you doing?”

The answering scratchy little chuckle beside her ear sends a warm tingle down her spine.

“You have a PhD. I think you can work it out.”

“Clarke.”

“You keep saying my name like that, but it just makes me wanna misbehave even more.” 

Somewhere behind her, Lexa hears the flight attendants moving around the galley, setting up the drinks cart, and she’s hyper-aware of the pressure of each of Clarke’s fingers through the thin material of her slacks.

“Not gonna lie,” Clarke whispers, and the low rasp of her voice does things to Lexa. Things she should not be entertaining on a busy flight. “I’m seriously thinking about dragging you to the bathroom so we can renew our membership of the mile high club.”

For a hot second, Lexa considers it too. According to the sign, the bathroom _is_ unoccupied...

But, no. No. 

Once was enough to tick it off their sexual bucket list and she isn’t eager to relive the experience. Especially since the plane hit heavy turbulence part way through and it turned out it wasn’t only Clarke rocking her world but also the actual plane dropping out of the sky. 

So Lexa takes a breath and gently pries Clarke’s fingers from her leg. 

“If we’re going to have sex in a bathroom, I’d rather it wasn’t a germ-ridden cubicle we share with a hundred other passengers. Can we at least be civilised and wait until we get to our hotel?”

Clarke studies her face, contemplative. Then, “Alright.” Blue eyes glitter with promise. “I need more room to manoeuvre for what I’m planning to do to you anyway.”

Lexa gulps. 

  
  


***

  
  


“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?” Clarke asks as they weave their way hand-in-hand through the bustling convention floor towards the room where her second seminar of the day is taking place. She sends a sly look over her shoulder at Lexa. “Because the last time I left you to your own devices, you’d collected, like, twenty phone numbers.”

Lexa frowns, partly because of the insinuation and partly because her muscles still ache from the previous night’s exertions. “On behalf of Dr Tsing.”

When her colleague in the Feminism and Gender Studies department discovered that Lexa was attending the world’s foremost LGBTQI adult entertainment expo, Dr Tsing asked if Lexa wouldn’t mind reaching out to the woman-identified performers there to see if any would be interested in participating in her research. The response had been overwhelmingly enthusiastic, to the extent that Clarke had to rescue Lexa from a swarm (what is the collective noun, anyway? A clunge?) of porn actresses clamouring to give her their contact details. It was a pleasant surprise to find them so engaged and keen to get involved, although they seemed somewhat disappointed once Lexa explained she wouldn’t personally be interviewing them about their experiences for ‘Pornography: Through a Feminist Lens’.

“Mhm. And I’m sure it was for _Dr Tsing’s_ benefit that almost every one of those girls put multiple tongue, flame or water splash emojis beside their name in your contacts.”

Lexa’s face heats. “That—I wasn’t… I mean—”

“Relax, babe. I’m just teasing.”

Clarke pulls them to a stop in front of a booth selling a contraption called ‘The Eldo’—what appears to be a sex toy that attaches to your arm and, confounded, all Lexa can think is “but, _why_?” before she’s distracted by Clarke stepping into her body.

“I’m not worried,” Clarke says as their hips and stomachs align with a gentle bump. 

Darkened, wanting eyes rake over Lexa’s features and it makes heat plummet to the pit of her stomach; desire stirring, low and heavy.

“They can drool over you as much as they want but I’m secure in the knowledge that you...” Clarke drapes an arm around Lexa’s neck, drawing her nearer, and a quiet breath catches in her throat in anticipation. “You are all mine.”

Her own hands settle on Clarke’s waist.

“Well, I did agree to marry you, so…” A faint smirk tugs at the corner of Lexa’s mouth. “I guess you’re stuck with me, wife.”

Clarke beams then, eyes soft and glowing. The smile that steals over her face is a mirror of Lexa’s. 

It’s been a year (thirteen months and six days, to be precise) since they exchanged vows in front of a small, select group of their nearest and dearest, but the novelty of referring to each other as “wife” shows no sign of waning yet. Lexa still feels the same giddy thrill, the same warmth blooms in her chest as it did that day, when she and Clarke stood before each other in a forest clearing and promised each other forever. 

“Operation ‘Put a Ring On It’ didn’t exactly go off without a hitch,” Clarke muses wryly as she lifts her fingers to trace the line of Lexa’s jaw. She presses even closer, gaze dragging between Lexa’s lips and her eyes and back again. “But we got there in the end, Mrs Griffin-Woods.”

“We did,” Lexa nods, heart quickening as it always does at their proximity. Her hands slide around to link at the small of Clarke’s back. “Although, I still think Woods-Griffin had its merits.”

“Really? We’re gonna rehash this debate again?” 

“My quantitative research methods were robust, Clarke. Statistically, everyone I polled preferred my configuration of our surnames.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and laughs. “Whatever. Shut up and kiss me, nerd.”

Only too happy to oblige, Lexa tilts her head, angling in to taste the shape of Clarke’s smile, and just as their lips are about to touch—

“Putting on a live floor show for your fans, Griff? Always the exhibitionist.”

Clarke groans at the interruption and looks over to see Raven and Octavia strutting towards them. They’re both slurping yard-long margaritas, sunglasses tucked into the low-cut v-necks of their matching Sexacon cropped tees. They do appear to have a legitimate point, though, because there’s a trio of bug-eyed girls nudging each other and holding up their phones just a few metres away, spectacularly failing to be subtle.

“Fuck off, Ray. Don’t you have a panel to get to?” Clarke says, frowning, but she doesn’t loosen her hold on Lexa, unperturbed by the audience. 

“Autograph session,” Octavia replies. “Which means sadly we won’t be there to heckle your masturbation masterclass, ‘Going Solo: Squirt Like a Pro.’”

“Speaking of…” Clarke glances at her watch. “Shit, I’ve gotta run.” 

She grasps Lexa’s cheeks and gives her a solid kiss on the mouth, ignoring the gagging noise coming from Raven’s general direction. 

Meanwhile, off to the side, the starstruck fans clutch at one another, melting at the display of easy affection between their idol and her spouse.

“Try to stay out of trouble for the next hour,” Clarke says once she withdraws, running her hands down the lapels of Lexa’s blazer. 

“I’m always on my best behaviour.”

“Oh, I know you are. It’s everyone else I need to watch out for. Not that I’d blame them for losing their minds over your tight little bubble butt in those pants, Professor Hot Stuff.”

“Clarke,” Lexa admonishes, prickling heat creeping up her neck, far too conscious of Raven and Octavia still within earshot. Because if they ever learnt about the nickname coined by Lexa’s students during the first week of the semester, they’d never let her live it down and she’d rather not provide yet more fodder for their repertoire of jokes at her expense.

Of course, Lexa had been torn between acute embarrassment and shocked disbelief when she turned a corner near her office and overheard one of the freshmen remark how she “wouldn’t mind being punished by Professor Hot Stuff for not doing the required reading—and by that I mean letting her raw me over her desk” to an enthusiastic chorus of “yes” and “mhm” and “binch, sign me the fuck up” from her peers. 

As Lexa related the anecdote over dinner that evening, the tips of her ears burning bright, Clarke could hardly stifle her guffaws. Since then she’s taken great enjoyment in teasing Lexa about it whenever she can, the nickname just another tactic for Clarke to deploy in her ongoing mission to make her wife flustered.

“What? All I’m saying is: if I’d had a professor like you in college, I would’ve had a perfect attendance record. Front row, centre; every time.” Clarke’s fingers drift over the open neck of Lexa’s crisp white Oxford shirt and the ticklish touch against her sternum provokes an involuntary shiver. “Although, let’s be real, I probably would’ve flunked your class. I mean, how could I concentrate on my education when you look so fucking hot in tweed?”

Lexa’s cheeks are rosier now but she leans in, dropping her voice to a low murmur. “As if I’d be able to focus on teaching with you sitting in the front row. You’re very distracting.”

Her eyes shift from Clarke’s face, trailing down her throat and torso, getting momentarily stuck on the cling of Clarke’s red blouse and the generous amount of cleavage the plunging neckline affords. She glances back up to find Clarke wearing the smuggest of smug expressions.

“And judging by the way the convention volunteer is gesturing emphatically behind you, you’re also late for your workshop.”

“Huh?” Clarke cranes her neck around to see. Curses quietly. “Okay, wish me luck.”

“You won’t need it.” Lexa strokes Clarke’s cheek and lands a quick peck on her lips. “I’m so proud of you.”

They share a look, one that makes Lexa want to reel Clarke in for _more_.

“Oh for chrissakes, will you two stop validating the fuck out of each other 24/7?” Raven exclaims, the words dripping with exaggerated disgust. “It’s honestly the nastiest shit I’ve ever seen. And as someone who once witnessed a fifteen-guy facial on set? That’s a lot.”

“It’s kinda cute,” Octavia shrugs. Then she pauses to clarify. “These two dorks, not the bukkake.”

Lexa makes a pained face and says to Clarke: “Please go. Before they further taint our relationship by mentioning it in the same sentence as any other demeaning sub-genres of hardcore porn.”

A comforting hand rubs at her bicep and Clarke’s blue eyes soften in sympathy. “Come find me after? If you’re not too traumatised.”

“Of course.” Lexa steals another all-too-brief kiss. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

A chorus of wistful sighs draws everyone’s attention to the three girls still loitering nearby. Caught out, they pretend to be suddenly fascinated by the display of glow-in-the-dark butt plugs in their immediate vicinity.

  
  


***

  
  


“So by joining together, you can ensure fair treatment and use your collective bargaining power to negotiate more favourable conditions. Better remuneration. Shorter hours. Sexual health checks paid for by your employers. Even to demand more diverse hiring practices.”

The small crowd surrounding Lexa, a coterie of actresses, booth babes and other uncategorised but interested bystanders, nod and murmur amongst themselves, a revolutionary gleam in their eyes.

“Well, I just have one question,” the woman nearest to Lexa pipes up. She trails a hand across Lexa’s shoulder and down her sleeve. “Are you one of the perks of membership? Because you can cross my picket line anytime.”

Lexa blinks owlishly behind her glasses. “Uh…”

A familiar voice cuts through the subsequent snorts, groans and giggles. “Alright. Okay. Settle down, ladies.” 

Clarke elbows past the throng, sending a sour look towards the woman still hanging off Lexa. 

“How about you get your mitts off my wife before I forcibly remove them?” It’s ground out with a quiet sort of menace that makes Lexa swallow hard.

The woman wilts and shrinks back into the crowd without argument. 

“Goddammit. Why are the best ones always taken?” someone mutters bitterly as Clarke stalks over to Lexa’s side, seizes her by the back of the neck and proceeds to kiss her with relish, effectively and unambiguously staking her claim.

The air in the room contracts, the universe folding in on itself due to the supermassive force of envy emanating from those treated to an unimpeded view of this impromptu makeout.

When Clarke drags her mouth away at last, Lexa is left staring, glassy-eyed and speechless, heat radiating from her flushed cheeks.

Apparently satisfied that she got the point across, Clarke turns to address the women in front of her. “You wanna bag an academic hottie of your own? Here’s a pro tip for you...” She pauses, letting the silence stretch her for a couple of seconds, knowing that she has the captive audience hanging on her every word. “Gender. Studies. Major.”

There’s a collective intake of breath. Wide-eyed glances exchanged. At the back, a tall, lanky booth babe calls out, “bullshit!”

“Swear to God, she was top of her class.” A beat. A flex of an eyebrow. “And now she tops me.”

“ _Clarke_!”

Lexa’s face feels like it’s on fire now. 

One of the actresses searches through her purse for her phone. “Gender studies, huh? Google Maps says UNLV is only a couple miles off the Strip. Who wants to share an Uber?”

While the women are distracted, hastily dividing themselves into rideshare groups, Clarke escorts Lexa away from the commotion, making a beeline for the convention hall exit. 

“Should we call the university to warn them their campus is about to be invaded? I feel like we should,” Lexa says, glancing over her shoulder to check if their getaway has gone unnoticed. Thankfully, they seem to be in the clear. “I mean, the innocent freshmen…”

“Won’t stay innocent for long. Those girls are locked and loaded.” Clarke slips her hand under the rear vent of Lexa’s blazer, hooking a thumb into the waistband of her pants. “Do I even wanna know what was going on back there?”

“I was just explaining the benefits of unionising their labour.” Lexa wets her lips. “But before that, they helped me pick something out for you.”

She lifts her hand to show Clarke the bulky black paper bag she’s carrying.

“A gift, for me? And you took the advice of porn stars?” Clarke grins. “Colour me intrigued. What is it? Something I can wear? Or use?”

Lexa shakes her head, a secret smile burrowing into her cheeks. “You’ll just have to wait to find out.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


“Lexa, the suspense is killing me. Can I look now?”

There’s a distinct whine in Clarke’s voice but, entertaining as her wife’s growing impatience is, Lexa isn’t sure how long Clarke’s cooperation will last. For now, she’s complying with Lexa’s earlier request to sit at the foot of the bed and to keep her eyes closed.

“Not yet,” Lexa replies as she reaches for the small box on the bedside table and plucks the sensor from its velvet cushion. It’s a pale blue oblong chip, no larger than a dime, with an infinity symbol inscribed into one side, smooth and flat on the other. Mostly unremarkable, it doesn’t _look_ like the supposed “bleeding edge technology” the woman from ALIE Enterprises spoke of with faux, almost inhuman zeal during her sales pitch.

While she’d been skeptical, Lexa was also intensely curious about the bold scientific claims. Enough to drop $599—introductory Sexacon offer!—on the kit, which came with a thirty-day satisfaction guarantee or your money back (and a 0.01 percent risk of permanent nerve damage).

Taking a deep breath, she gathers her hair up into a messy ponytail and places the chip on the back of her neck, just above the last vertebra as per the diagram in the instructions. As soon as the sensor touches her skin, it activates. She feels rather than hears a faint electrical hum, followed by a pinch as the device latches on, embedding itself there. Ordinarily, she’d be alarmed that there’s some piece of mysterious biotech attached to her spinal cord but, right this second, she’s entirely too distracted by the warm pulse at her nape and the stronger corresponding one at her groin.

All doubts about a lack of rigorous clinical trials and pending FDA approval (and the legal waiver she signed excusing ALIE from any liability) fly out the proverbial window.

As an experiment, she cautiously brushes her fingers over the curved end of the dildo jutting from her crotch. To say she’s unprepared for the sudden jolt of _feeling_ , a stab of arousal so intense that it makes her knees buckle, is an understatement. She tries again and chokes on a silent gasp, eyes screwed shut and jaw locked tight as she rides out another hard throb.

Jesus, _fuck_.

If Clarke so much as wraps her hand around this thing, Lexa’s going to black out.

She must have the settings up too high...

“Babe?” Clarke sounds concerned now.

“Just a minute,” Lexa says shakily, finding the instruction booklet and skimming over the quick start guide. She soon discovers there’s a button on the side of the chip that adjusts the sensitivity. She clicks it twice to change it to ‘low’ and sighs in relief when her next tentative attempt to touch the toy results in a minor, far more tolerable flutter of sensation in her lower abdomen.

So it’s with a renewed sense of purpose and only a small amount of trepidation that she approaches Clarke. Once Lexa’s in position, she squares her shoulders and puts her hands on her hips, striking what she hopes is a confident pose.

“Okay.” She clears her throat. “You can look.”

Clarke’s eyelids flutter open, blue eyes flashing dark in an instant as they land on the length of silicone that protrudes from the harness sitting snug against Lexa’s pelvis. Her lips part on a soft, indistinct sound.

“Surprise,” Lexa says, the last traces of self-consciousness melting away under Clarke’s openly appreciative stare.

It’s with some visible effort that Clarke drags her eyes up to meet Lexa’s. The sight of dilated pupils alone has Lexa shifting her stance, aware of the wetness starting to pool between her thighs.

“Believe me when I say I’m super grateful,” Clarke begins, “but what’s the special occasion? Pretty sure it’s not my birthday or any of our anniversaries, official or otherwise.”

Off Lexa’s small frown, Clarke backtracks. 

“I’m not complaining. At all. It’s just… you prefer to use your hands. Magical, magical hands that you know I love more than anything else in the world.”

“Yes,” Lexa grumbles. “As does the whole of Twitter, thanks to that four-minute video Raven uploaded of you gushing about them in excruciating detail.”

“You always make me gush.” When the innuendo meets only a stony response, Clarke gives a shrug. “It’s my favourite topic, what can I say? I didn’t know Ray was filming me. Besides, it was three years ago. Seriously. Time to let it go, babe.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I’m still recovering from the trauma of visiting you on set after the video went viral and having Murphy tell me my fingers are the equivalent of having a ten-inch dick and if I signed with him he could make me a star.”

“He was such an opportunistic creep,” Clarke says with a shake of her head. “Wonder what he’s doing these days.”

“Probably a five year stretch in the state penitentiary.”

Clarke’s lips twist in wry amusement, even as her eyes rove over Lexa, lingering on her bare chest and the twin points of her nipples.

“Anyway, you already made a deal with me. Don’t forget I still own the exclusive rights to license those beautiful fingers.”

A small burst of laughter bubbles up at the unearthed memory, one Lexa hasn’t given any thought to in years. She takes a small step closer.

“You never did start your sex toy empire.”

“Turns out I’m too selfish to wanna share you with anyone else, copy or otherwise.”

Half-lidded eyes flick down again, appraising. 

“As for other appendages…” Clarke’s teeth dig into her bottom lip and she draws in a sharp breath through her nostrils. “If you wanna remind me how good you are hands-free, I’m definitely on board. Especially if it involves me riding you into the mattress.”

The visual that pops into Lexa’s head then causes her brain to short-circuit. 

Clarke, on her knees.

Straddling Lexa; moving on her lap. 

Flimsy lace bra doing little to contain the bounce of Clarke’s tits as she lifts up and sinks back down the shiny, wet shaft of the toy. Taking it slow and smooth and so, so easy, eyes locked on Lexa’s the entire time. Mouth slack and open, spilling raspy obscenities and a crescendo of loud, throaty noises until—

“Lexa?”

Jolted out of her trance, a hard flush sweeps across Lexa’s skin. She blinks several times, an attempt to shake the image from her mind. Once she recovers, it’s to find Clarke watching her with a potent mixture of love and lust, at once familiar and exciting. 

Smirking; a provocative half smile that beckons Lexa closer as much as the next words, an instruction pitched low: “Come here.”

She’s so hypnotised by Clarke’s stare, so helplessly drawn in that she fails to notice the hand reaching for her until she actually _feels_ Clarke’s fist close around the dildo. 

Warm. Firm. Confident. 

Lexa’s physically incapable of holding back a whimper, because _God_ this is the lowest setting and it still makes her thighs tremble and synapses misfire.

It’s like nothing she’s ever experienced before. A dull yet visceral surge that races down the shaft towards her clit then radiates outwards like a shockwave. It takes her a string of breathless seconds to regain her composure, to adjust to the odd phantom sensation of being able to feel Clarke’s fingers around her but _not_ her. 

And Clarke, Clarke is looking at her with microscopic focus, a fascinated tilt to her head. Her grip tightens, testing with a light squeeze, and a soft gasp escapes Lexa’s throat before she can clamp her mouth shut. 

“You feel that?” Awed disbelief. Something eager, too. Clarke’s brows scrunch together. “But… how?”

Lexa swallows audibly. It’s hard to think, much less form actual words when Clarke’s hand is still wrapped around what is, however temporarily, a de facto extension of her body. Or so the chip is tricking her brain into believing. 

“The surface is covered in thousands of tiny receptors that send electrical stimuli to this little thing here.” She points to the device at her nape. “I’m guessing there’s some kind of feedback loop routed via the central nervous system and it—”

Before Lexa even finishes explaining the highly dubious science behind it, Clarke’s mouth is _on_ her. Wet heat engulfs the tip of the toy and it’s only by the thinnest of margins that Lexa stops her hips from jerking forward to seek more. 

This isn’t something they ever do with strap-ons. In fact, it’s one of Clarke’s abiding pet peeves about porn. As she once declared to Lexa: “giving a blow job to a dildo is like cooking a fancy dinner and throwing it in the trash. Pointless and a waste of time.”

Not that Clarke cooks either but, as someone who does possess a modicum of culinary skill, Lexa could appreciate the metaphor and agrees.

Although now, with dark, dark eyes watching her intently as Clarke’s tongue flicks out, Lexa is beginning to reassess that previously held opinion about fellating sex toys. At least this one in particular. She shudders and groans as Clarke takes her a bit deeper. Has to put her hand on Clarke’s shoulder—half to steady herself, half to push Clarke away, because the ache between her legs is building too rapidly.

Mercifully (or is it an act of cruelty?) Clarke takes the hint and withdraws, a smirk on her lips as she regards Lexa. 

Goading once more. 

Clarke runs her thumb over the head of the strap-on, over the tiny opening at the tip, smile growing by increments as another shivery moan leaks out. “Is this what I think it’s for?”

Seeing the toy slicked with saliva makes Lexa’s mind flash to that fantasy image of Clarke riding her. 

She licks her lips and nods. “There’s a reservoir for liquids hidden in the base but I didn’t fill it up.”

It seemed like an unnecessarily realistic feature to Lexa when the ALIE sales rep demoed it to her (flanked by a posse of porn stars), although she saw the benefit of providing greater immersion for others.

“That’s okay.” Clarke gives a light, playful tug on the end. “Maybe we could try it out later. Kinda wanna watch you come on my tits.”

At this point in their relationship, Lexa really shouldn’t be shocked by anything her wife says—in the bedroom or elsewhere—and yet... 

“Clarke!”

All she gets in response is the dirtiest laugh before Clarke proceeds to kick off her heels, unzip her pencil skirt and shimmy out of it. She scoots up the bed, legs falling open in invitation, and the stab of arousal Lexa experiences when she sees the damp spot on Clarke’s underwear is so forceful it knocks the air from her lungs. 

Within seconds, she’s in motion. 

Scrambling over the covers on her hands and knees; graceless in her haste. 

Clarke doesn’t hesitate either, grabbing hold of Lexa’s hips and urging her down so that the strap-on slides against her covered slit. Lexa shudders again, the muscles in her arms trembling as Clarke begins to rub herself along the thick shaft.

Because Lexa feels every inch of it. 

Warm, wet friction that has her rocking forward to meet it.

“Yeah, just like that,” Clarke says, voice hitching as she grinds down and Lexa’s able to feel the stiff bump of Clarke’s clit through soaked satin. Hands migrate. One strays around to cup the curve of Lexa’s ass; the other goes to her jaw to urge her into a deep kiss.

It’s hot and heavy. All humid breath and the wet slide of tongue and Lexa shivers every time her nipples brush against Clarke’s silk blouse. 

“Fuck, want you inside me,” Clarke pants out between kisses. “Want you to shove that strap into my wet pussy and fuck me hard.”

Lexa only attacks Clarke’s mouth with greater fervour. Partly to stem the flow of filth, because _Jesus Christ_. And Clarke allows it for a while until she finally wrenches away with a soft gasp, heaving for air, hooded eyes fixed on Lexa’s. 

“But, first?” Clarke sucks in a breath and releases it. “First, you’re gonna make me come like this. And after you’ve fucked me, maybe twice, I plan to spend the next two hours eating you out. How does that sound?”

Lexa has absolutely no objection to this agenda for the evening. But given that she’s having serious difficulty stringing two coherent thoughts together, much less being able to express them aloud, all she can do is nod her enthusiastic consent.

“Alright, then.”

Intense stare never leaving Lexa’s face, Clarke bites her lip and plants her feet wide, arching her lower back to bring the toy into firmer contact with the subsequent roll of her pelvis. She uses her grip on Lexa for leverage and the slow, sensual undulation of Clarke’s hips is almost more than Lexa can cope with.

Before long, she’s sweating. Barely able to hold back the urge to hump into Clarke hard and fast like she’s desperate to. 

She’s tingling all over but it’s concentrated most at the point of contact between her clit and the base of the strap-on. There’s an ache behind her hips that builds and builds as Clarke moves with her, as the slick noises and the musky scent of arousal threaten to overwhelm Lexa’s senses. 

So she isn’t ready for it when Clarke snakes a hand between their bodies to peel the scrap of satin aside and the dildo makes direct contact. Isn’t prepared for the graze of damp, wiry hair before Clarke’s labia part and Lexa glides between. 

She’s so startled by the fierce heat and flood of wetness that greets her that she jerks against Clarke’s entrance, enough for the first couple of inches of the strap-on to nudge inside. 

The sudden, unintentional penetration causes Clarke to stiffen for a second before she groans, “Oh, fuck. Stay right there.”

And, God, Lexa has to grit her teeth because she can feel the snug cling of Clarke around her— _it_ (this is extremely confusing)—and she honestly thinks her body, or perhaps just her poor beleaguered brain, is about to blow a gasket. Her arms shake with the strain of holding herself still above Clarke when all she wants to do is drop her hips, to plunge in deep and be sheathed in Clarke entirely. But the sharp score of fingernails against her scalp, the warning squeeze of her butt, goes some way to curb that instinct. 

It’s an implicit reminder: Lexa may be wearing the harness but she’s not the one in charge here.

Clarke begins to move again. Short, shallow thrusts. Angling so that the tip rubs against her front wall every time, unerringly finding the little rough patch. 

Her face is the picture of concentration. Eyebrows pinched together, teeth digging into her bottom lip. Sweat dots her temples, slicks the hollow between her clavicles and the line of her cleavage. Her breath comes in quick, harsh puffs through her nostrils and Lexa feels warm and flushed all over just looking at her. Because she could live a thousand lifetimes and never be anything less than enthralled by witnessing Clarke unravel like this. 

Her head tips back and Lexa leans down to suck a bruising kiss into Clarke’s throat. 

She cries out. A ragged, wanton moan.

Her hips slam forward, pushing the full length inside.

They both gasp, bodies locking up.

Lexa, because she feels _everything_. Muscles clamping tight. Every flutter and quake and the warm gush of fluid.

And that does it for Lexa. 

Zaps her like a static discharge. A short, sharp shock. A split-second sting before a surge of energy bursts through her, sparking through every nerve ending. Her eyes squeeze shut and her mouth drops open but only a strangled, high-pitched whimper comes out. She barely prevents herself from collapsing forward, biceps trembling with effort.

Throughout, Clarke hasn’t stopped palming at her ass. Fingers clench and release around the swell of flesh with an urgency Lexa recognises; Clarke isn’t done yet. There’s more pleasure to be wrung out of her and that knowledge gives Lexa a second wind.

She opens her eyes and meets Clarke’s heavy-lidded stare. Ruts her hips down once, testing the response, and Clarke makes the most delicious sound that sends a charge down Lexa’s spine. She lifts her body up, pulling out a few inches then pushing back in. Again and again. Soon finding a tempo that has Clarke scratching at Lexa’s scalp before long, drawing her knees up, spreading her thighs wider, rolling into every thrust. 

Between the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the obscenely wet noises, the creak of the leather harness, the hoarse chant of “fuck” and “don’t stop” and “Lexa”, the hot pulse of Clarke’s cunt around the strap-on as it glides in and out, Lexa is close to losing it again.

Especially when Clarke’s movements become erratic, as she abandons her hold on Lexa’s ass and jams her hand between them to draw fast circles around her own clit.

It’s over within moments.

Clarke’s whole frame pulls taut. She bucks one last time, back bending off the mattress, muscles seizing as a croaky shout of “fuck, Lexa!” is torn from her throat. 

She stays like that, frozen for the span of a few breathless seconds and then she groans. Jerks and shudders and squeezes around the toy. 

She doesn’t say another word. Just desperately tugs Lexa down to meet her open mouth, a clash of lips and teeth before they readjust and Clarke moans into the heated space between them.

Lexa keeps pumping her hips, swallowing all the soft sounds that sustain her: the catches of breath, the whimpers and sighs smothered by the seal of their mouths. Clarke clutches at her, both palms roaming down Lexa’s sweat-slicked back until they reach her ass, taking an eager handful of each cheek. Kneading as Lexa rocks into Clarke in quick, shallow thrusts. 

Pressure gathers; a low-down, heavy throb. Lexa _aches_ with it. Kisses Clarke deeper, wetter, dirtier. Licks into her. And Clarke sucks greedily on her tongue, grips her ass so tightly Lexa knows there’s going to be two identical finger-shaped imprints left there.

The thought pulls a growl from her, causes her to double down. It’s only a matter of seconds, three short jogs of her pelvis before she spasms and goes rigid. Mouth open, panting loud against the kiss-swollen bow of Clarke’s upper lip as heat floods through her body and her eyes roll back.

This time her arms do give way and she slumps into Clarke’s chest, quivering through the aftershocks, breathing hard.

A hand strokes along her spine, up and down, soothing, while Clarke drops kisses across Lexa’s cheek.

“I love you,” Clarke murmurs, nuzzling into the damp strands of hair stuck to Lexa’s temple. “Do I tell you that enough? Because I do. I love you so fucking much.”

A rough, breathless laugh gets caught in Lexa’s throat. “Even though I sweated all over your fancy blouse?”

“Babe, you could sweat over the contents of my entire closet and I wouldn’t give a fuck.” Clarke gropes at Lexa’s butt again for added emphasis. “God, it turns me on when you can’t wait to take off my clothes. I mean, I flooded my basement pretty much the second you crawled onto the bed.”

Lexa hides her face against Clarke’s neck, a little bashful but practically thrumming with victorious pleasure.

She kisses the sensitive spot below Clarke’s ear, gratified by the happy sigh she receives. How Clarke holds her tighter, closer, as though even the tiniest sliver of air between their bodies is somehow a grievous offence.

Lexa’s lips take a detour, mouth working with languid pressure and suction down Clarke’s throat towards her collarbone. She uses her teeth on the return trip, biting at the corded tendon until Clarke begins to squirm beneath her.

“Lexa…” Clarke tilts her head to the side. Moans when Lexa nips harder. “This is the part where I’m supposed to be going down on you, remember?”

Lexa hums. “That does sound good but…” She drags her tongue over the site of the small mark left behind on pale skin then draws back to gaze down at Clarke. “I have other ideas.”

One unfocused blue eye cracks open.

A faint smirk curves Lexa’s lips.

She brings her mouth close to Clarke’s ear.

“Three-speed vibrate function.”

**Author's Note:**

> Darlene is the new Vanessa.


End file.
